


Falling Into Water (AKA Destiny and Other Disasters)

by Malu_3 (Grainne)



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: 2016 Summer Olympics, Additional Warnings In Author's Note, Age Difference, Alternate Universe - Modern with Magic, Alternate Universe - Royalty, Athletes, Diving, Fate & Destiny, First Meetings, Humor, Intrigue, M/M, Modern Pentathlon, Romance, get-together
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-09-01
Updated: 2016-09-02
Packaged: 2018-08-12 08:08:49
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,681
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7927189
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Grainne/pseuds/Malu_3
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The British Championships are done and dusted, the team's been selected, and now the formal IOC registration deadline has passed, yet Kil's still running Merlin's training sessions like he's heading to Rio. All he'll say – even when Merlin screams at him in exhausted frustration, threatening to elope with a litre of vodka and a tub of raspberry ripple – is, "Patience, young man. You cannot give up on a journey before it's truly begun."</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Manchester

**Author's Note:**

> **Notes:** FULL NOTES TBA - THIS WORK IS CURRENTLY WIP. 
> 
> Written for the [2016 Merlin Olympics Fest](http://merlinolympics.livejournal.com/) \- please swing by and go for gold in reading/viewing/giving love to all the other awesome entries!
> 
> Massive thanks go to kitty_fic for making this fest happen, and for being so gracious and patient with my own dithering and personal disasters. In fact, at the risk of later being accused of being a crap gift-giver, I'm dedicating this fic to her, and all she does for Merlin fandom. Thank you, Kitty!
> 
> **Warnings:** Age difference = 7 years (no underage sexual activity); fic contains foul/potentially offensive language; references to prejudice, illness (including bodily functions), threats of violence, past violent death/dead parents and grief. Minimal actual sports action (shocking, I know!), maximum hand-waving of disbelief, and plenty of dubious humour. Ultimately, this is a protracted meet-cute/love story/HEA, but with speed bumps.

**Manchester – July 2016**

The British Championships are done and dusted, the team's been selected, and now the formal IOC registration deadline has passed, yet Kil's still running Merlin's training sessions like he's heading to Rio. All he'll say – even when Merlin screams at him in exhausted frustration, threatening to elope with a litre of vodka and a tub of raspberry ripple – is, "Patience, young man. You cannot give up on a journey before it's truly begun."

Which is just… Whatever. It's typical cryptic Kil bullshit, is what it is. It gets so bad Will and even Merlin's mum are about to step in and call him on it. Then Lance DuLac, diving prodigy and Team GB's favourite son, shocks the nation by announcing that, after much soul-searching, he and his new fiancée are opting to stay home and focus on starting a family. 

"Shut up," Merlin says, elbowing Will hard in the chest when he starts crowing about breeder panic. "Don't be a dick." 

"But Merlin, you're – "

" _Don't_ , man. Seriously. It's not happening. Time to move on."

Two days later word gets out that Gilli Magnusson, who'd come out of middling nowhere to _own_ the championships, is being investigated for magic doping. 

There's a collective social media shudder throughout the community. There hasn't been a serious problem with pledge-breaking since the eighties, but the last time around it led to a moratorium on athletes from magical bloodlines participating in the Olympics.

Kil summons Merlin into his office at Great Dragon Aquatics after their evening session and slaps down a print copy of the latest anti-integration vitriol on the subject. 

"Arrogance. Idiocy. Sheer vanity," he says, rapping his scaly knuckles on an unflattering shot of Gilli mid-somersault. "He was never the one destined to win their hearts, to win _our_ place in this new Britain. Do you understand me, young man?"

Merlin nods. "Coach, I filed my statement, I signed the pledge. You know I'd never…" He glances towards the pictures on the wall. He may not have known his dad, but his mum raised him to know what he stood for: full integration and participation based on mutual trust and respect, not invasive tests and ignorant handicapping. 

_"Just because you have magic doesn’t mean you have to use it, love. Cheating's a matter of character, not heritage. Anyone can be a cheat."_

Kil tracks Merlin's gaze, brow furrowed and lips set in a grim line. "No, you wouldn't," he says at last, and Merlin turns to go, hoping this is the end of it for now. He just wants to rest and regroup, keep his head down while the scandal shakes out, then focus on qualifying for Tokyo. 

Then Kil clears his throat, adding, "At least, not for your own sake. But maybe that's the point. See you bright and early tomorrow, eh? We need to work on your twists."

Freya takes one look at his face as he exits the office and tosses him a strawberry Muscle Milk. "Hey, it's not ice cream, but…"

* * *

"I came fifth in Sheffield," Merlin reminds everyone at a tense Saturday lunch. " _Fifth._ There's no way."

"Of course there's a way." Kil folds his hands over his belly, looking smug. "You met the qualifications." 

"Barely."

"And you're in good form." 

Freya nods. "True. Morris has been slacking off since. I heard he's ready to quit diving altogether."

"I'm afraid he peaked in Kazan," Kil says. "Cedric too. Whereas Merlin's numbers are headed in the right direction."

Hunith pulls out her mobile, fiddles with it, then holds it up triumphantly. "The Crown Princess mentioned you on her Twitter yesterday."

"Yeah, Mum, as part of an appeal for the Queens' Sporting Trust. She doesn't know me from Adam. All the former scholarship kids get– "

"She is the president of the BOA, love."

"Doesn't mean they let her hand-pick the athletes," Merlin mutters into his chicken penne.

"Oh yeah?" Will gestures towards the window with his fork and, dammit, that's just about all it takes these days to make Merlin blush. He doesn’t even need to look anymore. 

Of all the sports featured in the "Bring on the Great" adverts plastering the city, fate had seen fit to grace the bus shelter across the road with – of bloody course, because Merlin has a hate-love relationship with fate – modern pentathlon. "Then how'd His Royal Hotpants get in?"

"William," Hunith chides as Merlin chokes back a laugh. "Show some respect."

"It's not even a real sport though," Will persists. "Just your average douchey Harrow PE units strung together. The Pendragons probably invented it – probably invented it for _him_ after whatever he got up to at Harrow." 

"Yeah, I'm sure that's it, Will," Freya says dryly, picking out peas and corralling them on one edge of her plate with a flash of her eyes. "That devious Princess Morgana has once more convinced the world to include a fictional sport in the Olympics just so the Fair Spare has something to do – you know, keep him out of trouble, give her first shot at chatting up hot gymnasts and volleyball babes."

"Freya!"

Merlin shakes his head, smiling at his mum's pink cheeks – he blames her entirely for his hair-trigger blush – as the conversation erupts into a lively chin-wag about the royal family, punctuated by Kil's attempts to lecture them on the history of military multi-sport events.

He stays out of it, focussing on finishing his meal. He's heard it all before, even the stuff about modern pentathlon. Like many, he'd been dazzled by the footage of the Prince's run for the bronze in "the James Bond of sports" in 2012, and had subsequently logged a fair few hours online continuing his education. 

Right now, however, all he cares to know about the sport is that it means there are no less than _five_ larger-than-life HRH Prince Arthur Pendragons wrapped around the bus shelter across the way, and that each and every day they stare up at him in what his brain interprets as a mouth-watering array of nothing much at all and posh fetish wear. 

The cool blue challenge of his gaze, the proud jut of nose and jaw are now seared into Merlin's brain. It's what he sees when he closes his eyes and, pathetic as it makes him feel – nineteen and queer with the wank fantasies off an old Mills & Boon cover, for fuck's sake – he can’t help picturing clinging to that broad chest when he bites his lip, turns his face into his pillow, and slips a hand down…

"Merlin! Earth to Merlin!" 

"Hm?" Merlin frowns at the barrage of peas Freya's force-pushed onto his plate for a moment before shrugging and popping one into his mouth.

Will waggles his eyebrows. "When you finally meet him, promise us you'll tell him the real story of how you got into diving. Freya thinks he'll go all stiff-upper-lip and start edging away, but I've a tenner on him breaking down, weeping into his porridge and proposing on the spot. Or, you know, at least inviting you to be his Rio boyfriend."

"Shut up." Merlin crumples his serviette and throws it at Will's face. "I'm not going to meet him as _I won’t be there._ Even if I were, I'm sure they've got him stashed away in some posh top-secret location and only allow him out for his events. Plus ten-metre's at the end, so I'd be in training practically the whole time with no chance of downing enough liquid courage to convince the judo team to help me bust him out for a quiet… 

"Oh god, stop laughing, the lot of you! Quiet _chat_ is all I meant. Go away. I mean it! You're all terrible and I need a nap."

* * *

The call comes just as they're kicking off a morning dryland session in the gym. Kil disappears into his office for a quarter of an hour. When he re-emerges, he strolls over to the edge of the spring floor, hands in pockets, and gives Merlin a toothy smile.

"That's enough for today, I think. By the by, how's your Portuguese?"

The joy that bubbles up when the words sink in – the sheer terror and giddy excitement – is like nothing Merlin's ever felt. The closest comparison he has is the memory of his first climb to the top tower, defiant and trembling, telling himself that the hard part was over, that all he had to do now was fall.

With a shout he springs to his feet and scrambles onto the trampoline where Freya's warming up. They leap and bounce, clutching at one another and shrieking.

"Rio?"

"Rio!"

"What time is it?" 

"Samba time!"

For a brief moment, catching the look in Kil's eyes, Merlin considers dismounting and hugging him as well, but… No. That's not how they roll.

* * *

It's a hectic few days getting everything sorted. The rest of the team is already installed at the prep camp in Belo Horizonte, so after an impromptu celebration – AKA nursing a protein shake with the older folks in the back garden while Will and the rest of their mates grill sausages, get increasingly pissed, and improvise such rousing ditties as "Our Merlin falls off walls in smalls, stands tall for Eeeeeengerland!" – Kil gives Merlin a ride to the airport.

"Remember, Gaius will be sending all your footage, so any time you need me…" Kil looks over at Merlin after they've pulled up at the kerb. "But I believe I have done all I can. Go, young man. Your destiny awaits. Now you must fly to it, embrace it."

Which is just… Yeah. Merlin longs to point out that there's not a whole lot of other options if he wants to make it to Brazil in the next 24 hours, but he holds his tongue. Despite his eccentricities, Kil's been a rock for him, both as a coach and as a friend of the family.

He's all set to say so when Kil adds, "Also, old diver's word of advice – handies and hummers are nice for a spot of stress relief, but no outrageous bed gymnastics starting forty-eight hours before the prelims until you're done, got it?"

"Kil!"

Merlin nearly does himself an injury getting out of the car, and is still beet red by the time he queues up for security. He watches the Zika advisory video on a loop as he waits, feeling a bit guilty at the reminder of Lance's predicament and Will's comments, determinedly _not_ laughing whenever the unfortunate juxtaposition of images and closed captioning seems to indicate that he should avoid sexual contact with mosquitoes. 

Not that he has sex on the brain or anything. Not that he's ever had sex, or at least nothing beyond drunken handjobs and a bit of dry humping. He's been in training more or less since he was thirteen. He's never had the fucking _time._

"Good luck Mister…Emrys," says the strapping Druid who checks Merlin's documents, flashing a smile as he hands them back. "Bring on the great, yes? Do us proud?" 

"Thank you, sir," Merlin says, standing tall and returning the smile, grateful for the reminder of the bigger picture. "I'll do my best."

* * *


	2. Belo Horizonte (I)

**Minas Tênis Clube, Belo Horizonte – July 2016**

Merlin changes into his trunks on autopilot and heads into the showers to rinse off. He knows he's meant to be resting – the sun's not yet up; his first team training session is still hours away – but he's not sleepy and he's always found swimming lazy laps more relaxing than counting virtual sheep. He rounds the partition back into the dressing room, intent on grabbing a shammy from his bag, then stops short when he realises he's no longer alone.

There's a guy on one of the benches, a bit older than Merlin but well fit, sat on a towel, naked save for trainers and socks, and he's…

Merlin averts his eyes and jumps back, cursing under his breath when he nearly slips and falls. He's not panicking. His days of panicking over fit naked guys in the dressing room are a thing of the past. Will assures him he's got excellent self-preservation game on this front.

But. Maybe his self-preservation skills haven't quite adjusted to Brasília time, as he can't help taking a second look. Can't help noticing that yes, hello, the guy's built in a way that Merlin has a definite _thing_ for – solid without being totally jacked, pleasing handfuls from top to tail – and _hello, yes_ his hands are definitely busy doing something that looks amateur-porn-worthy between his spread thighs. 

"Whoa, hey," Merlin blurts, jerking his chin up and forcing himself to find an absolutely fascinating row of pegs on the far wall. "Sorry. Didn't see you there. I'll just, um – " 

Merlin has no idea what he's going to "just, um" do, but he's saved from figuring it out by a sudden burst of laughter. It's a nice, warm, all-in sort of laugh. It echoes off the tiles, settling his nerves. 

"Relax, mate. No need. This is your – oh, _damn._ " The man breaks off with a snort, chuckling. "Promise you, this is not what it looks like."

Confused, Merlin dares another peek. This time he's met by a pair of stunning eyes – blue, bright, somewhat challenging – and oh fucking piss shit and bloody bollocks they're _those_ eyes, the very ones that have been taunting him from the bus shelter across the road.

With a grimace, the man – _His Royal Hotpants the Fair Spare, actual factual Prince Arthur fucking Pendragon_ Merlin's brain supplies, relying as ever on Will-speak under extreme duress – lifts a hand, revealing an uncapped stick of BodyGlide. 

Oh. _Oh._

As Merlin gawps, mortified, Prince Arthur looks him over, eyes lingering on the trunks. He's not leering or anything, but he's not bothering to hide where he's looking, which is…unusual. Also totally hot.

His gaze slides back up, and now he's smiling at Merlin. _Smiling._ He lifts an eyebrow. 

"I'm guessing chafing isn’t much of an issue with those?"

Merlin manages a decent nod, but the sound that comes out of his mouth is awful, somewhere between a croak and a hum, like he's trying to gargle his own spit. His body seems to have shut down, his brain snagged on the thought that he's been wanking to this man, all five of him, with his ridiculous fencing jacket and jodhpurs and _dear god those thighs_ in hi-tech compression shorts – this man who's now sat here being perfectly pleasant despite the awkward circumstances and talking about _crotch chafe._

Merlin swallows, wincing, and tries again.

"Yeah. Er, no, no chafing. I'm Merlin. Ten-metre. Hello?"

"Ah, he speaks! Hello." Still smiling, he goes back to manhandling his junk this way and that while he finishes lubing his groin area. Then, as if there might be some confusion as to his own identity, he adds, "I'm Arthur. Modern pentathlon. Lovely to meet you. How on earth did I miss you at the kit launch party, by the way? I could've sworn I met the whole diving posse."

"I'm not, um… I wasn't there." Merlin forces himself to walk nearer, to walk past the Prince – past _'I'm Arthur'_ – and over to his bag like this is no big deal, just shooting the breeze with HRH with barely enough on between them to be decent in the street. 

It's complete bollocks though. He knows his ears are a patriotic shade of red by now, and probably his cheeks, too. He fumbles inside for a shammy, takes a steadying breath, and turns around. 

"I'm a late replacement. There were a couple of issues with de-selection."

"Ah." Arthur's smile fades. He pops the cap back on the BodyGlide and frowns down at the floor tile as if it's personally offended him. 

Up close he's still unbearably attractive, but Merlin's relieved to note that he's not the flawless, larger-than-life vision from the bus shelter. He's sporting a few days' patchy beard growth; he's got moles, bruises, scars, even a hint of pool rash along his back.

"Right. I heard there'd been some accusations of…" Arthur makes a vague hand gesture. 

"Magic doping." Merlin's not fussed about saying it – it is what it is – but he notices that it makes Arthur tense up. "But DuLac isn't caught up in that," he adds hastily. "He's trying for a baby. Not _just_ him, obviously, as that wouldn't be, uh… But his fiancée, she recently lost her dad, and with the whole Zika panic…"

"Right." Arthur gives a heavy sigh, tossing the BodyGlide back into his bag. "Not sure I could have done that, to be honest," he murmurs, scrubbing a hand over his face. "Walked away from… But then, who am I to judge?"

Merlin feels the same, more or less, but he's surprised at Arthur admitting as much to a random stranger. Before he can work out if he's meant to respond – and if so, how – Arthur slaps his thighs, straightens up and looks Merlin in the eyes.

"May they live long and have many fat, healthy babies," he announces, miming a toast. "But enough of that. You're the real story now, aren't you? The one who's here in Belô, up training before dawn." He gives Merlin a more thorough once-over, adding, "I've a good feeling about you, Merlin…?"

"Emrys." And that's it. Merlin's done. Full flaming body-blush mode activated, and there's nothing he can do save stand tall, strangle his shammy in his fist and try and own it. "And cheers, that's… I'm not happy with how I came by it, but it _is_ an amazing opportunity. It means a lot to my – to _me_ , I mean, myself and my family and…"

Merlin ducks his head, if only to escape Arthur's intense gaze for a moment, and runs the shammy over the back of his neck. "To be honest, it's still sinking in. Only found out a few days ago. My mates back home are probably still pissed off their faces, inventing more verses to, 'Merlin falls off walls in smalls' and embarrassing my mum."

Arthur laughs, that same rich, unguarded explosion of merriment from before, but with a little snort thrown in. It makes his eyes light up and everything all down his front jiggle, and it's _glorious._

"I've a few mates like that." He leans down, yanking on the tongues of his trainers, adjusting the laces. "So, where's home, Merlin Emrys?"

"Manchester." 

"You don’t sound as much."

"Oh! No. Originally from Ealdor."

"Aha! Country lad." Arthur reaches into his bag, withdrawing a pair of running shorts. "Nice corner of the kingdom. I was there, I believe, though some years back."

"It is. And you were. You built us a pool in oh-six. That's where I – " Merlin loses the plot as Arthur works the shorts over his trainers then, completely unselfconsciously, stands and pulls them up, tucking himself carefully into the built-in mesh pouch. He's standing near enough that Merlin could help.

"Funny, you think I'd remember that. Sounds like hard work."

"Hm?" Merlin tears his gaze away too late, getting caught when Arthur looks up. He goes a bit pink, but his smile doesn't waver – and he doesn't move away. 

"Oh, right," Merlin says, trying to keep his voice normal, his breathing steady. "I meant, our school got a funding match through your trust to build it. The pool. But you did come to our Sports Day for the ground breaking ceremony."

Arthur's brows go up. "Good lord. Please don't tell me I gave you a prize for sack race or something when you were twelve. I'll feel ancient."

"Ten." Merlin bites his lip at Arthur's wince. He notices the subtle shift back, the break in eye contact. "But, no, no sack races. I only saw you from a distance. I was benched that day."

"Oh?" Arthur's eyes snap back to his – keen, but wary. "Troublemaker, were you? Sounds like a good story."

Merlin opens his mouth, thinking how hard Will and Freya are going to simultaneously laugh, shit themselves, and threaten bodily harm for not taking advantage of such a perfect set-up. But he can't get over the fact that Arthur's both everything and nothing like he'd thought he would be, that the moment feels wrong somehow – too intimate, but not really _close_ – that he genuinely likes the man before him too much to make this about fodder for some fantasy anecdote. 

He swallows hard, shrugs, and crosses his arms over his chest. "A story, yeah, but not necessarily a good one." 

They're staring into one another's eyes as the shift happens. He fucking _sees_ it, can't help but be fascinated as Arthur shakes off the infinitesimal shades of real, live man and becomes the persona Merlin's used to seeing on screens.

"Well then, Merlin of Ealdor, bem-vindo ao brasil and boa sorte! Now, if you'll excuse me, I'm going to go get in a good run in the real world before my security detail wakes and discovers I've ditched him again."

"Oh, of course." Merlin makes a dumb flaily gesture and steps back so Arthur has a clear path to the outer door. Then he thinks about all the shit on personal safety in the packet he'd skimmed on the plane and has a sudden vision of having to explain to the King and Crown Princess, not to mention his mum, why he'd let Arthur go off alone.

"Only, um…" He touches Arthur's arm as he passes. "Sorry, but is that wise?"

"Possibly not." Arthur stops, eyes fixed on where Merlin's fingers have just been, then he looks back over his shoulder, an ordinary man once more, expression caught somewhere between troubled and pleading. "But…necessary. For me. Does that make sense?"

Merlin looks him in the eyes and – helpless to do otherwise in the face of such honesty – nods. 

"Have a good run, mate," he says, and waits until the glare of Arthur's resulting grin has worn off – and the man himself is well out the door – before burying his face in his shammy in a silent scream.

* * *


End file.
